The Harry Way
by EyesBeClosed
Summary: This is the way his world ends. He knows what he must do. Spoilers for the season six finale. One-shot.


**The Harry Way**

**Author's Note: I don't own anything. **_**Dexter**_** belongs to Showtime, CBS, and Jeff Lindsey. Also, be forewarned, this is not a light read!  
**

"Oh God."

This is the way his world ends.

When she _sees_ him—for what he truly is, and always has been.

In that moment, he doesn't feel anything, really, except the weight of his foster father's eyes bearing down upon his back. It reminds him of his burden, of his curse, of the inevitable. For the Holy Ghost of Harry Morgan will never let him forget the First Commandment of the Code: Thou shalt not get caught.

He knows what he must do.

His lizard-brain keenly gauges her reaction, quick to shift from one playmate to the next. He understands fear well—if not from experiencing it himself, he's at least well attuned to sensing it in others. It's one of the easier emotions to identify because it's as much physiological as it is psychological. She displays every textbook sign. Her sympathetic nervous system activates kicking off a series of subtle changes. Her brown-green eyes dilate. Her oblong face pales. Her thin body trembles. Finally, her heartbeat jumps to life, pulsating blood in overdrive, setting his teeth on edge.

It's a curious sight because her hard-edged, foul-mouthed exterior—her mask—has fallen too. He's never seen her so panic-stricken, at a loss for bleep-inducing words. But he can also tell she's not succumbing to circulatory shock as some of his less stimulating victims unfortunately do. In fact, he can sense the cogs turning in her mind as she tries to steady herself with an admirable series of shaky breaths.

He brushes away a vague, nauseating, fluttering mix of _sensations_ in the pit of his stomach—because monsters don't have feelings anyway—and he waits for her to make the first move.

Although she grew up with same father, Harry taught her a much different code, one filled with high-minded concepts like justice, honesty, and integrity. And, in a way, he has always admired her naïve commitment to such a noble cause. Intellectually, he understands those principles and their attraction, too. So he's not surprised by what happens next.

No, he's not at all surprised when her hand slithers into her gun holster like a seasoned professional. They aren't foster brother and foster sister anymore, after all. Like his own mask, those roles vanished the second she saw him.

His lips curl at the implicit challenge, and he reveals his true smile to her for the very first time. In the shadowy depths of his vacant core, the Dark Passenger tips his bowler hat. _Good evening, fine lady! Fancy a night at sea? _And, as if a cool breeze had suddenly wiped away her memory, she trains her gun on him like he were any other Miami scalawag.

This doesn't surprise him either, because, just as his world is in the midst of ending, he has come to a divine revelation. He understands at last what Harry must have grasped so long ago. The Dark Passenger is his everything: it inspired the Code, and he is the Code's disciple. He is a shell, a simple vessel for some darker calling—and nothing more.

At that, his senses heighten. _Their_ senses heighten, to be more precise. And _they_ can see the muscles in her throat contract; she chokes back a sob. Perhaps, she too can discern the change in his countenance. Like her ex-fiancé and his brother, he's not the man she thought she knew. In fact, he's not even a man. She straightens her spine, flicks off the safety—because she can't love a monster anyway.

His lizard-brain reacts accordingly. _They_ back away from the kill table, retreating into the shadows near the altar. He knows his prey will come to him now. It's only a matter of time. His Dark Passenger can read it in her darkened, determined eyes: the insatiable hunger. He can't blame her. Her world needs its order restored now, too. Alas, she might be a worthy playmate if she weren't so human.

She squints. Shrouded in darkness, his figure is hard for her to make out. But she, too, knows the game. He lies in wait like a predator, and she realizes she should also be patient. She shouldn't waltz right into the lion's den without calling for backup; that would be suicide.

Yet, patience was never her strong suit. She swiftly passes the kill table without allowing her eyes to linger on the greying evidence of his sins. Heart battering against her ribcage, sweat soaking through her shirt, she plays the stupid, impulsive human to his smooth, calculating monster. With her gun raised like a guiding torch, she steps forward, into the shadows, blindly, stupidly, impulsively:

_Light.  
_

Like an angel has descended from the heavens above, brilliant, white _light _fills the chamber of the church.

But it isn't a miracle, he's sure. It isn't his old friend, the fat, teasing moon, either.

Reflexively, his hand moves to his stomach as his vision begins to blur. His middle feels hot and sticky and messy, not at all to his liking. Momentarily, he worries about the lack of plastic beneath his feet, and how this was not at all part of his plans for tonight.

Frozen, she watches as his form disintegrates to the cold, stone floor. Then, instinctively, she dashes to his side. She wraps a supportive arm around his shoulders, cradling him as best she can, while using her other hand to help him apply pressure to the bubbling wound.

Although he is confident she's probably screaming a string of choice words into his ear, he can only assuredly decipher one sound: the violent roar of waves enveloping him, sweeping him out to Biscayne Bay. It's fitting somehow.

Yet, he does notice when she pulls him onto her lap like the Pietà. She brushes his cheek with her palm, and her skin is unimaginably soft, her touch shockingly soothing. She bends down to brush her lips against his forehead. And then she wipes away an impossible tear trailing down his cheek.

He assumes it doesn't belong to him because it couldn't.

"Stay with me," she repeats like a prayer. "Stay with me, goddamn it!"

But it is already too late. Blood is everywhere. It has pooled around them. It's on both of their hands now.

Against the rising tide of pain, his chest swells with the oddest sensation, and he desperately wants to tell her something important—before he goes the way of all deserving monsters at the bottom of the bay. His tired brain slogs forth on its final mission, but, no matter how hard he tries, he can't seem to find the words.

So he pictures his son in his mind, instead. He will miss him most of all; truly, he wanted to be the very best father in the entire world. But he's confident she will raise him better despite her colorful vocabulary.

He also reflects upon his own foster-father, Harry. His beginning and his ending. That's fitting somehow, too. Maybe this was his plan all along.

His voice cracks weakly. She locks eyes with him very seriously.

"You always were a better shot, sis."

She nods, stifling a mixture between a sob and laugh.

* * *

She will carry his secret with her to the grave. It's what Harry would have wanted.

**Note: Thanks for reading and be sure to drop me a line! I really, really do appreciate reviews/criticism! **


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